I got invited to do an acoustic session for Balcony TV this week. I threw up the Bat Signal and Big Narstie and Ev Dash came over. They’d never met before, but they’re both safe as fuck and mates of mine, so naturally they got on famously off the bat. We’d decided to do Games for The Thrones, so we ran through it a few times, Ev on guitar, constantly a little too fast, because “I’m rock n fucking roll mate,” and soon enough it was sounding pretty beautiful, so we grabbed some beers, hopped in Narstie’s whip, cranked up Max B, and set off for Westminster.

Narstie has never in his life driven without a satnav. Well, I remember it ran out once, when he was on his way to meet us for the Video Highway shoot, and he got lost out in the country for seven hours and had to rely on the kindness of strangers to get back to the city. “I was so lost,” I remember him telling me after. “I was stuck up some fucking country lane and it was getting dark and I was so hungry I cried.” Today his Satnav battery was gone again, so I had to navigate, and I’m not the best navigator in the world. “You can’t tell man to go left right now when it’s the wrong lane and its a traffic light!” cried Narst maybe twice. But he was happy enough. “It’s not every day you get to drive around town with Jesus and Russel Brand.”

We got there bang on time, despite the attempts of this rotten cash-less you-have-to-do-it-online parking ticket situation they have going on now, and it turns out Balcony TV was being filmed right in the belly of The Beast, amongst a gaggle of masonic-designed money temples, adorned with all manner of gargoyles and sheila-na-gigs and pyramids with eyes on them and stuff, on the balcony of the cotdanged Methodist Ministry, run by by my dear ole pal Luke and my backing singer Mary Turner’s father. We didn’t see Mr Turner, but we felt the holy spirit all around us, and let it imbue our performance with a righteous churchly air, and I didn’t mention any of the stuff I’d been pondering in bed last night, how insanely hypocritical these institutions are to constantly bang on at us about how we need to feed to the poor, when they’re sat on millions (far more in the case of the Catholic Church, owners of the world’s largest gold reserves, who could cancel world hunger RIGHT NOW and still have enough cash to pay off pedo lawsuits for the next century). And all this hoo ha from them about how pornography corrupts the young, when it is theirbarbaric, stone age “morality” and terror of the human sexual urge pushed on impressionable minds like crack that creates all the problems in the first place, Goddamnitalltoblazesandback. And what’s with this constant meme of the “innocent” child, ruined by knowledge of sex? So when a human discovers the existence of sex he becomes “guilty”? I am reminded of Lenny Bruce and his bit about violence and fucking in movies. “Violence is fine, but god forbid they see any fucking, they might try it one day.” And what was the other thing? “Children ought to watch pornographic movies. It’s healthier than learning about sex from Hollywood.” Quite.

Anyway, I didn’t talk about any of that stuff, but I did say something about the royal family that the presenter was quick to point out was my opinion and not that of herself or Balcony TV, and I didn’t labour the point, because I am a gentleman. So we did the session, one take, before Big Ben started banging on and on interminably about the time, and Narstie flew off to Halfords in search of a satnav charger and myself and Ev and Jamie Danananananana, who hooked the thing up, went to a pub and drank fine ales. Ales, as Ale Virgin Jamie discovered, are magical things, far more potent than a regular “beer”, and within a mere two, we were were merry men indeed. I swung by Stratford on the way home to buy chicken, singing one of me and Wade’s new records to myself and highfiving people at random. “You are a happy man indeed,” exclaimed an old fellow with a turban and a granny cart to me at the traffic lights. “Why not?” I replied, gesturing up at the rain cloud that had just opened up. “Look at god!” “”Yes, yes, yes indeed,” he smiled, and gave me a badge with a picture of a monkey on it.

Today my monitor came off the wall. Look!

A happy half hour with a drill later, and all was well again. FLAWLESS VICTORY! I cried, to no one in general. HASHTAG DRILL GOD!

Why is it we love drills so much anyway? Is it a penis thing, like everything else?

Who knows. Anyway, speaking of penises, I tried to listen to the new Eminem record just now. I had to switch it off halfway through. Too piercing, man. Like your drunk uncle screaming in your ear over the top of some far-too-loud top fourty radio bullcrap at a particularly low key family function. Geddafuckouttahere with that bullshit man, Jesus.

Granted the last em album I bought was the Marshall Mathers LP, but this beat didn’t kill my ears; it’s clean and not overly intrusive and avoids the ploinky-ratatata sizzurp jive coming out of mainstream hip hop nowadays. I think it’s more that he’s said all that I think I need to hear him say. Listening to Eminem is like watching a team based sport: there might be little fragments of brilliance here and there, but if you’ve seen one game, you’ve seen em all.